Joseph Leveridge rose from his bed and dressed in great perturbation of mind. Here was a condition of affairs on which he had not reckoned. He was so distracted in mind that he forgot to brush his teeth.
When he reached his little sitting-room he found that the table was laid for his breakfast, and that his landlady had just brought up the usual rashers of bacon and two boiled eggs. She was sobbing.
“What is the matter, Mrs. Baker?” asked Joseph. “Has Lasinia”—that was the name of the servant—“broken any more dishes?”
“Everything has happened,” replied the woman; “you have taken away my character.”
“I—I never did such a thing.”
“Oh, yes, sir, you have. All the time you’ve been writing, I’ve felt it going out of me like perspiration, and now it is all in your book.”
“My book!”
“Yes,
